Pulse
by jasminedragons
Summary: They made love on the carpeted floor, the leather couch, and, once, the waterbed. GSR.
1. Da Dump

_Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven._

He was glowering and she knew it.

Maybe that's why she suggested a walk around the block.

"Cool off."

He said No.

"No thanks."

For a moment, she just bit her lip and looked downwards.

That sent a sick, swooping sensation through his stomach. But just as he was about to open his mouth to change his decision, she looked up, smiling, and raised her hand to brush his cheek.

He held his breath as he felt her smooth skin stroke his own weathered one.

Her hand smelt of lavender. Maybe it was the lotion he had bought for her last Christmas.

As she caressed his cheek, he felt like he was going to, no, _wanted_ to jump her bones.

The thought sent shivers up and down his spine.

But why did he, Gil Grissom, acclaimed entomologist, supervisor of graveyard shift at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, even feel like doing something highly unprofessional with a mere subordinate?

Okay, so he had had several dreams involving and revolving around her.

Sure, he sometimes dreamt of hugging her and woke up wrapped around a pillow.

Yes, he did catch himself once, twice, five times daydreaming about her and the things they'd do together when they were alone as he stared into the murky depths of a jar containing a foetal pig.

But other than that?

It wasn't like he felt anything for the woman.

Really. He didn't.

Her voice drew him back to reality. Her hand, unfortunately, was at her side.

Oh, how he wished to just take his hand in hers and kiss her with all the passion left in his weary, working-twenty-hours-a-day body.

She said she'd be going back inside.

"It's chilly out."

She told him not to stay out too long.

"Oh."

She turned on the steps leading to the apartment complex.

"Don't let me keep you from counting your heart rate."

She winked and disappeared into the building.

He blinked and lifted a hand to his wrist, but stopped.

He really didn't want to know how fast she set his pulse.

Or did he?


	2. Thump

She totally set his pulse racing.

In the evidence room, where her hand deliberately brushed his when she handed him a case file.

In his office, where her leg ran up against his under his table.

In his townhouse: the carpeted floor, the leather couch, the waterbed, and once, spontaneously, the kitchen counter.

He lived for these moments, these minutes, these _hours._

And the best thing was, nobody knew

Nobody would ever know.

They'd finish up their cases, she'd report to him before getting off shift; she'd get her stuff from the locker room and take a shower. He'd finish up some of that ever-mounting paperwork and grab his coat before heading out to the parking lot.

They'd meet on the steps of the crime lab, smile at each other, and set off for their respective cars.

He'd turn right; she, left.

It sort of reminded him of a Chinese film he'd seen before.

Sara would always start her car first and turn right, starting the long drive she took nearly everyday.

He'd linger a little longer; he'd turn left and hit five red lights before finally parking his car in his townhouse's driveway.

Her car would appear a minute or so later, parked it on the other side of the block next to a deli where she'd buy veggie burgers and milkshakes for them to share.

He'd get out plates and heat up the oven.

She'd ring the doorbell just as he was watering his last plant.

He'd put the watering can back under the kitchen sink, wipe his hands on his slacks and answer the door.

She'd always be standing there, two brown paper packages in her arms, a smile on her face.

The bags would be stashed in the oven, curtains would be drawn; he'd pin her up against the wall and slowly, softly, passionately start from her navel all the way to her mouth.

Shoes would be kicked off; clothes stripped, carrying and kissing her simultaneously would ensue.

They'd make love on the carpeted floor, the leather couch, the waterbed, and that night, spontaneously, the kitchen counter.

Dinner was always late.


	3. Lump

He always, always separated work from personal life.

Lately, though, the two had seemed to be merging into one.

Yes, he had tried avoiding her whenever they were at the office; true, he stopped putting her on his cases, often pairing her up with Nick or Greg; no, he never talked to her unless necessary in front of co-workers.

Okay.

So he had tried.

But honestly?

Sara was just too hot, too irresistible, and never enough in one dose.

And whenever he saw her, whether at home or in the lab, he so wanted to jump her bones.

However, becoming red-faced and choking on your own words as you feel sexual energy pulse through your body when you see her walking around the corridors _at work_ in front of a confused Warrick, who has to ask if you are alright about ten times before you brush him off with an excuse to needing the bathroom (_cold shower_), is definitely not acceptable.

And probably never will be.

Once, though, he'd been asked to help out on her case.

She, he, Catherine, Warrick, Nick and Greg were standing around the table in the layout room; as she leant over to hand him the case file, he got a good look down her crisp white shirt, first two buttons not locked together.

His heart lurched, shapeless diamonds of perspiration formed on his temple and something embarrassing happened…

_Down there._

Who knew dress shirts could make something sexy _sexier_?

He blinked as a waving folder drew him out of his reverie.

"Gris? You gonna take it?" she asked, eyebrows coming together, forehead creasing up.

Uhm. Ah. Er.

"I… need to go to the bathroom."

_Cold shower. Now._

He turned from her confused expression and briskly strode out of the room, hoping that they hadn't noticed how flustered he'd gotten.

Confused silence filled the room, blinks and glances were exchanged.

Finally, Warrick spoke up.

"Has anyone noticed that Gris has been using the men's room more often than usual?"


	4. Bump

_Bump._

Her hip grinds against the coffee table as he leans down upon her, pushing up her tan pullover to line passionate kisses on the smooth porcelain of her stomach.

She gasps, her legs curling around his waist, her heel digging into the small of his back.

He groans (in pain or anticipation? She can't tell) and fingers fly through her curls, tangled up in love.

The shopping bags aren't even out of her hands yet.

**Bump.**

The bags fall unceremoniously from her grasp as he pulls the remaining cotton over her head; the bra comes off, too, the pool of skin between her two meeting the rose of his lips.

She starts to undo his belt as he kisses her mouth, fingers making little semicircles on the undersides of her breasts.

_Damn them belts; why were they even made in the first place?_

Tongues duel, clothes fly; they're halfway down the hall now, heading towards her bedroom, pausing between kisses to take off what little clothes they have on.

Bump.

She flings him against the wall, trailing her tongue down his back. She can feel him shivering, and it makes her want more, more, _more._

Tan pullover, lace bra; a leather belt, a black polo shirt.

The score?

2-2.

And she's determined to win.


	5. Pulse

"Where are you taking her?"

Catherine had to yell over the chopper's loud, steady _whooshes_, squinting out the shiny sunlight.

"Desert Palm!" one of the paramedics called back, hoisting the gurney into the waiting doors of the helicopter.

Immediately, he told the guys to move over, he was getting in, ignoring the frown etched onto Catherine's disapproving face.

As the pilot maneuvered the chopper, the EMTs got started on her; a needle here, an ice pack there. His gaze swept up and down her body, bruised and battered.

_Please, Sara, wake up, wake up, wake up._

He found himself reaching over the gigantic first-aid kit to grasp her hand in hers. Squeezing her hand tight, he took in the sling she had made from her shirt and the rearview mirror in her hand. Thinking back to the trail of rocks and pebbles he had pursued, he realized Catherine was right.

Sara was a survivor.

A furious jolt from the airborne mode of transportation caused him to grab onto his seat. As he turned to make sure she was alright, he thought he caught a glimpse of brown beneath those eyelashes.

_Please, Sara, wake up, wake up, wake up._

Squeezing her hand even tighter, he leaned in her direction and scanned her scarred, but still beautiful, face for a sign that she had gained consciousness.

Another flash of brown.

Sara Sidle was gazing at him, her eyes full of exhaustion, confusion, and joy.

But what mattered the most was the fact that those mesmerizing eyes did not carry the hollow look of cadavers, but a sparkle of life.

He felt her squeeze his hand, and he squeezed back, knowing it was all going to work out.

They smiled at each other. Her, through the oxygen mask the EMTs had slapped on; him, through the now depleting haze of worry that had hung over the entire lab for a day.

As Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom smiled at each other, the chopper headed to Vegas, its blades cutting through the air, maintaining a steady rhythm.

A beat.

A heartbeat.

A pulse.


End file.
